


Lunch Money

by hellhoundsprey



Series: lunch!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Bottom Sam, Child Neglect, Cock Cages, Extremely Dubious Consent, Grooming, M/M, Non-Consensual Somnophilia, Puppy Play, Sexual Coercion, Top Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 05:32:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12834363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Benevolent Mr. Smith takes care of problem child Samuel on the weekends.





	Lunch Money

**Author's Note:**

> Hi hello this story is romantisizing/sexualizing a horrible scenario due to it being written in the (delusional) abuser's POV, nothing is okay, nobody is happy, I hope you're having a good time with this, bye!
> 
> PS: I'm definitely gonna do a part II for this, which I will post as an independent fic due to very different tags/warnings applying to it.
> 
> Hunger knows no friend but its feeder.  
> —Aristophanes

Kid's already on his feet and right by the curb when Seb pulls the car to a halt. Smith could see the football gear from behind tinted windows, but once the door is flung open he can smell it, too.

Sam is quiet. They're late.

“Hey, champ.”

They take off. Smith curls an arm around middle school shoulders, smiles paternally while Sam rips at the zipper of his backpack, pulls out a water bottle to quench play-pretend thirst.

“How was the game?”

Eyes on the bottle, shoulder spiking hard into Dean's Rolex.

A blunt, “You weren't there.”

Well. “I told you I'd let you know _if_ I'd be able to make it.”

“Well—” and Dean's arm is thrown off entirely “—you coulda said you _weren't_ gonna make it!” Kid's gonna make him cry with that kinda face. Tells him, wetly, honestly, “I felt like an idiot.”

“Baby—”

Sam screams, “I'm not your _baby_!” and Dean laughs just because he can hear Seb chuckling from up front.

Samuel Wesson is still in the right kinda age and always on the right kinda level of starvation to be appeased with candy. He's opened up to Dean before, told him, “I don't even like sugar that much. Makes my mouth hurt,” but a two dollar McD milkshake buys Smith those eyes right back.

Could have gotten him anything, really—burger, fries, Sam is not picky. But Dean is. Likes the thought of creamy vanilla sloshing in this otherwise empty stomach. The thought of glucose rushing right for the endorphins.

Sam nuzzles back under his arm on a red light, and Dean wouldn't pull the vocal apology from him, ever.

~

It's a shame to have him hitting the shower right when they get home. Dean might have to make up an excuse as to where the dirty clothes went. He can always buy more.

Smith has ordered pizza and pulled out the ice cream by the time the kid is done blow-drying his hair. He smells grown-up because Smith is wary about buying kiddie shower stuff (Sam wouldn't want to use them anyway) but still looks perfectly teen-y half-swallowed by Dean's button-down—reaching mid-thigh, sleeves rolled up.

Kid's soft and warm as he lines up against Dean's side, focusing on the in-progress sundae with his eyes and mouth shamelessly popped wide.

Those wiry hands are wringing Dean's arm, and Sam doesn't interfere with having his hair ruffled.

Sam stopped being awkward about sitting in Dean's lap for a while now. Swallows spoonful after spoonful of strawberry and banana and cherry and syrup with his eyes glued to Dean's plasma TV, with Dean's palms searching out peach fuzz on mile-long legs from down to where the socks end up to where the shirt starts.

Sam has been growing but Dean's still laying out the same pairs of Underoos he's got for him way back then.

“No,” Sam winces. Pulls up his shoulder to half-crush Smith's face that's buried there for kisses. “You're tickling me.”

Dean should shave, probably.

He does. Comes back to the kid staring up at him with sad, sad eyes, the even sadder licked-empty bowl carefully placed on the coaster instead of the five hundred dollar coffee table's glass top (because Sam knows how to break Dean).

“Is there any more?”

“Pizza will be here in ten,” does the trick. Always does. “Y'wanna lie down, watch TV until then?”

“H'okay.”

If Dean didn't know any better, he'd bet money on not being the first (or only) one to make this kid sprawl on their sofa, half-naked like any other porn fantasy. Moody and reluctant about being kissed, because he's fourteen; he knows what's going on. Because Sam's not really into him, rather endures—knows it's what's expected of him. Dean's aware that he's worsening just about as much as he's trying to make better.

But voluntary or not: Sam's dick is never not-excited for him.

There's not much fabric to hide any of him, just enough so he won't shiver from cold in Dean's floor-heated studio apartment (with the spectacular view of both park and skyline, and marble tiles in the bathroom, walk-in closet filled to the brim with Armani and Cavalli).

If he'd have to, Dean could finish up just by cuddling him, kissing him. That little mouth that tastes like sugar-fruit-dairy, and he huffs so secretly upon getting his throat rubbed. Upon getting mouthed behind the ear, the slick drift of one perfectly-shaved cheek along his yet baby-smooth own.

Squirms, in Dean's capable hands, complains, “I can't see the TV,” with Dean's dick wedged fat against his hip.

Dean opens the front door just enough, tips generously. Brings Sam the bounty, family-sized, and Sam never thought of asking him if he doesn't ever want more than just a nibble.

Sam looks pregnant, after, which is the upside. The downside being that he's too lethargic to move, and complains, rubs his poor tummy together with Dean who presses kisses there in between. Licks over-around a navel that's usually inverted, lives tucked-in and oblivious until Dean comes into play.

Not for the first time, he wonders if Sammy's mama would interfere much with having her baby adopted.

Sammy sleeps stomach-down unless he's so full he'd puke if he did. Sprawls instead then, weed limbs strayed in every direction. Once asleep, he doesn't move much.

Dean uses these times for both home office work and indulging in his weekend child. Types numbers while cupping cotton-covered junk, shirt flipped to uncover that swell (the most darling mole few inches north of that navel). Smiles because Sam smacks his lips while he dreams, because he's so responsive it only takes a few gropes until he's straining in his underwear. A few more until Dean can make out a wet spot.

Smith is a very dedicated man.

Tried so many things in his short life. Confessed to his shrink awhile ago about his fantasies concerning his sister, and honestly, what he has with Sam is not that bad at all.

Sam humps Smith's mouth, uselessly, unconsciously. Smith suckles only delicately. A tease. Sam never calls him that, even though it's true.

Smith's baby stirs awake minutes into getting his ass licked out, whimpers, “Oh,” and, “how long was I...?”

Smith shushes him, kisses him. The laptop is put away, passive on the coffee table.

Sam still tastes like pepperoni. Dean's never thought he'd be this indifferent to getting the taste of his own ass licked back into his mouth, but Sam's more than he'd ever expected in general.

Smith got two fingers into him last week. Sam said he hadn't even noticed the second one. He definitely notices the first one, now.

“Ouh, uh—”

“Hurts?”

Sam makes a puppy sound.

“Okay. Okay.”

Smith removes the pad of his index, plucks his pants open instead. Sam sighs, still so tired. Dean likes him almost-best like this. Like a slumber dream.

Sam is easy to move, and the carpet floor is gentle to the knees. Dean knows.

Sam's jaw falls open without Dean's say-so, in the warm cradle of Dean's palms, and Sam's eyes are still closed with Dean sliding his cock across that tongue.

Sam has his hands in his lap until Dean doesn't trust that anymore, mutters, “Knead my balls,” and Sam does that. Careful, too-careful since he has history of of being suspended for all kindsa shit Dean still doesn't really believe his little boy was capable of.

Wouldn't mind him biting, scraping. But Sam is soft, always. Let's Dean fuck close to the back of his throat even though his stomach is bursting and does his best to swallow back the saliva he's dribbling all over Dean's razored-down pubes.

Dean watches him with hooded eyes. Licks his lip, holds Sam's hair out of his angel face.

“Hey. I wanna try something new.”

Sam sits back, wipes his chin and Dean knows he's being followed by those eyes. Disappears into the bedroom, raids the nightstand, comes back. Doesn't spread the treasure out just yet. Gestures Sammy to climb his lap instead, rubs throat and asshole as he's sucking on eighth grader tongue (tasting like thirty-something cock).

Sammy holds back noises. Sucks them back into his chest, and blinks curiously at the device in Dean's palm while he's getting fingered.

“This goes on your cock. Like a suit of armor.”

“D-does it hurt?”

“Not at all.”

“Hm.”

“But you can't get hard with it on.”

“Oh.” Confused frown, lashes dragging up so he can peep at Dean's eyes. “Why, uh...”

Dean promises, “You'll like it.”

Sam says, “Hm,” again, but lets Dean handle him from here on.

“Y'gotta think of something bad now. We can't put it on when you're hard.” One hand to those barely-haired balls. “Or you need me to hurt you? A little?”

Sam hisses on the pull, but his cock jumps happily.

Dean smirks. “C'mon. Think of grandmas.”

Dean goes to work as soon as a reaction begins to settle in. The cage isn't that tiny. Some little chub can fit it. Sam's a big boy.

Smith shivers some slick into his slacks on his own, “There you go,” and the click of the lock. Some more on Sam's fascinated face, the wobble to his lip.

“Hey, what's wrong? Does it hurt?”

“No, uh.” Sam pulls his arms a little tighter around Dean's neck. I Missed You Daddy hug. “S'just, uh. It feels...weird, s'all. Just weird.”

“It looks awesome on you.”

“Y-yeah?”

“Yeah. All snug and tiny. All mine.”

Smith smiles into Sam's hair. Feels him sighing upon getting his asshole rubbed, again. The spit has dried up by now.

Sammy's daddy ran away around the time Sammy entered kindergarten, says his mama. Had a sadness in her eyes like she knew exactly, said to Dean, “He's a lil...difficult. Sometimes.”

If Sammy wasn't as intent on kicking and flailing at Smith more times than not, he'd gladly spend all their weekends tucked away under his chin, chewing or slurping everything remotely edible he'd get his hands on. He still sucks his thumb, sometimes, which results in a tooth gap Dean has unloaded over quite a few times now. He laughs for the TV, but never for Dean.

Baby sighs, “I'm so full,” even though it's Smith with a mouthful of neck (he never lets it bruise).

“I'm not even...”

“No, I mean—my stomach. Ugh.” He pushes off, irritated. Turns his head when Dean wants to kiss him, and fights when he's play-forced into it. Yells, “Stop it!” and, “Imma be sick!”

Smith lets him mope. Cleans up the pizza box, refills and offers the soda cup. Sam pouts while sucking on the straw, attention zeroed in on the TV screen.

If this was really, really bad, if Smith was such a bad guy, he wouldn't let this pass like he does. Wouldn't wait, and dote, and apologize. Wouldn't nuzzle a socked foot and wouldn't laugh upon getting kicked in the face by it. Wouldn't tickle and cuddle, wouldn't rub Sam's belly until he's fallen asleep.

If this was bad, he wouldn't wake up to a hand on his dick. To sleep-heavy eyes and unbrushed teeth.

“It still feels weird.”

“You can still pee with it on.”

“I know. I did.” Frown, baby-creases. “I just... It kinda tingles. It's weird.”

“That's how it's supposed to feel.”

“I thought you'd...” Huff, frustration. “Nevermind.”

“I'll still make you feel good, y'know.” Pecked kiss on that bump of a nose. An upper lip. “Just not with your dick.”

Sam hums. Is still absently pawing Dean's dick, until Dean pushes into his palm. Pulls his pants open then, gets him out. Strokes him right, like he always does. Just like Dean taught him to. Edges his thumbnail against his lip, his teeth. Ignores that Dean is right there and eager for another stolen kiss, and milks Dean's cock like he's (actually, really) being paid for it.

It's dark by now, Friday night. Someone on the TV makes fart noises.

“How's your belly feel?”

“Hm. Better.”

“Yeah? Did you use the bathroom yet?”

Sam glares at him for that. Dean chuckles. Sam is flushed and croaks, “I cleaned, like you said,” and gets his hair kissed, gets Smith's in-love, “I know.”

“You don't. Maybe I'm lying.”

“Mh, I do, 'cause you're my good boy.”

Sam insists, “Not your _any_ thing,” half-muffled against Smith's teeth. Quakes, weakly, at getting his neck bitten (never too hard). Stretches so Dean can reach more of him, arches his back obediently on getting felt up.

Dean spreads his cheeks and peers through darkness. Claps him oh-so gently, hums, “Sit on my face.”

Sam makes the softest, shiest noises upon getting his ass eaten. It's so cute that Dean smacks his cock where he blindly expects that mouth to be gaping. Growls all pleased when Sam gets the idea, swallows him down. Kid hitches his hips and doesn't know where to put his hands, and Dean pulls him back onto his mouth.

Getting him soft after five long days never gets old (and also never easier). Dean feared it might, eventually, but he's starting to come clean with the dream that it won't.

Kid comes up to splutter, “S'feels so weird.”

“Ass or cock?”

“M-my. Cock.”

“Told you, that's the whole idea.”

“I-I don't—you said I'd like it.”

“You like it.”

“N-no, I...”

“You feel more of this,” Dean states, dry, middle finger pressing through the little resistance he's left Sam's sphincter with. Sam shudders his reply. “I like it when you squirm.”

Sammy complains, “Y-you're fucking _sick_ ,” with Dean's cock sliming up the edge of his mouth, with his math-a-thon savvy hands clenched around the base of it. Groans when Smith shoves his tongue back in next to his finger, and eventually laps at the crown again. Timid, varying kitten-licks, like he's forgotten everything.

Is so light-weighed in Smith's hands that Dean can push and pull him however he wants. Can play-pretend him rocking back, until he does.

Smith fondles down Sam's taint, thumbs at his slung-up balls and gets a hitched breath for that, a clench so hard he has to hiss. Slurs, “Fuck,” and slides in two, fucks up into Sam's mouth.

Asks to take it to the bedroom just before Sam would be tapping out from it all getting too much.

Sam is easily overwhelmed. Dean strokes him carefully, unbuttons and discards the lent shirt, plucks off socks. Teary, unsure eyes. Pink apples of cheeks, and he still has his thighs falling open so easily, like he doesn't even know.

Admits, painedly, “I need to, please,” while Smith is just pulling his own shirt over his head.

Looks down on him with all the fondness he never thought he'd be capable of, and fucks his own hand.

“You can. If you let me put something up your ass.”

“W-what kinda thing?” Still-open legs; a futile hand to his caged dick, pulling like the device will come off. “I, I don't wanna hurt.”

“It's not gonna hurt.” Nightstand, lube. “My fingers for now. Okay?”

Sam nods and says, “Okay,” but won't let his eyes dart away from Dean's face. Even though Dean never did anything to deserve this distrust, he doesn't blame him.

Sammy's asshole is rubber band-tight. Very sensitive and responsive, and whenever Dean thinks he'll never get to get his cock in there, Sam surprises with his utter will to be devoted. Goes butter-soft, just like that. Snaps tight on the downstrokes, yes, but barely whimpers. Sticks his little butt out and Dean crushes his cock against it, nips at neck and ears and shoulders, and Sam's mewling absently, eyes shut tight. A tremble to his spine.

“I—I can't—”

“Just relax. It takes time.”

Dean fucks him until his wrist goes too sore. Switches to his left hand then, and goes to his knees on top of the bed. Hovering over Sam's back, cock in his hand, he finishes within mere strokes. Sam jolts upon the warm trickle, then shivers, cranes his neck to see. Catches a glimpse of Dean's wild eyes, and turns right back face-down.

Dean has him sobbing, eventually.

“It hurts, I'm sore! Dean!”

“I'm stopping. I've stopped. Okay?”

“No!”

“What do you need, baby?”

“You know!”

“You wanna come?”

“You asshole. I hate you. Take it off!”

“I told you you can come with something up your ass.”

“No,” he sobs, “I don't wanna. You're not fair!”

“Okay.”

Smith sits back on his haunches, hands up.

“Okay, if you want it off...”

“I hate you,” still-sobbed.

“...if you want it off, Sammy, you gotta let me use something bigger. I swear I'll take the cage off, and you can come. I swear it won't take long, okay?”

Sam has honest-to-god tears in his eyes now. If Dean wasn't hard again already, he'd be now.

He sniffles, after a moment of consideration (fair enough), “Y-y'swear it—that it won't hurt, right?”

“Of course, baby.”

The sweetest, “Okay,” then, rough around the edges and Dean wouldn't ever want it any other way.

Sam rolls over on his back as soon as Dean gestures him to. He watches enrapt as his cock is being released, swells to full hardness within moments. Dean has to swat his greedy hand away, and Sam doesn't try again after the accommodating glare.

“Hands and knees, baby.”

Sam is more reluctant with that one, but obeys. Dean rubs up his back, urges him to lower his chest to the mattress. Settles in to bury his face in Sam's ass, and goes to town.

Sam shudders and bucks. Always so eager, so starved. Only knows his own hand and Dean's everything. It's an uneven competition.

Murmurs, “I wanna, I wanna,” without ever finishing the thought, doesn't know what to ask for.

Dean pushes the toy in without warning, and Sam seizes pretty.

Exclaims, “Ah,” and then jolts upon the vibration being thumbed on.

He groans, unbiased, and his knee slips. He'd topple to his side if he wasn't hanging off Dean's hand snug tight around his hip, the vibrator slipping up his guts.

It's definitely a beginner's toy, much smaller than Dean's cock but also quite bigger than two of Dean's fingers. Curled just right and once slid in completely, its effect is imminent.

Sam bucks. Slurs incoherent noises that Dean goes breathless for, trembles so hard in Dean's now two-handed grasp that he might as well be humping back onto a real cock.

Dean can tell how that tiny ass is milking around that toy. How the silicone base pops back-forth, some lube gushing out around it.

Sam's got both of his hands fisted half in pillow, half in his own hair, and whines.

Begs, and Dean stopped having a sense of time, to turn it off, please, please, too much.

Dean does, but fucks through the last post-orgasm tremors. Fucks him like he'd do it if it wasn't just a toy, and Sam cranes his neck for the kisses, lets Dean do whatever he wants. Too tired to talk back against Dean's hunger, really.

Him being half passed out helps putting the cage back on (after a quick swipe and clean). Dean beds him on the blanket on the floor so he can change the sheets real quick, wouldn't want them to sleep in any of the puddles they produced. Tucks Sam in once he's finished, wraps him in the shirt from earlier. Smith likes to sleep with the window cracked.

~

Smith isn't a cuddler, but Sam will never know that. Just hugs him tighter when Dean wants to weasel out of his octopus limbs. Dean's little monkey with abandonment issues and a cute snore.

Sam's very, very deep sleep is conducive for all kinds of fun. Among Smith's top three is definitely: surprising him with breakfast.

Scrambled eggs, sausages, pancakes. Smith has it all down. Knows how much salt and pepper his little one likes, which brand of hot sauce he prefers (even though he'd never be picky about it if Smith put out another).

By the time the kid stumbles out of the bedroom, Smith is almost done blending his own breakfast. Purrs, “Hey,” and presses a kiss to that crown of hair while Sam takes a seat at the kitchen isle and starts to dig in. “Good morning.”

“Mornin',” sounds sweetest around dick, second-sweetest around half a pound of food.

Dean sits, sips his meal replacement, watches the kid wolfing down the generous peace offering.

“It's a beautiful day out.” World's Best Daddy smile. “What do you wanna do today, huh?”

Sam shrugs, half-open mouth for another forkful of eggs. “I dunno. What d'you wanna do?”

Smith swallows the obvious reply with another sip of protein.

“How 'bout we drive outta town for a bit?” he offers instead. “Maybe a county fair? An amusement park? Whatever you wanna do.”

It's a lost cause, trying to communicate with Sam while he's inhaling a meal. Dean smiles for that, for the grease reaching up to Sam's cheekbones. Wipes at it with his thumb, and gets a glare for that. Sam doesn't like to be babied.

“Or we could just stay in. Binge some Netflix. Catch a movie, later. Anything you wanna see?”

Sam shrugs again, and Dean is mentally already showering together with him.

They do that, once the table is cleared. Sam complains that the cage itches, which Dean knows (from experience) is impossible after barely a day. He talks him into a handjob and soaps him down generously after rubbing his come into that yet-again distended belly.

Sam avoids looking at him but his cheeks are flushed, and Dean can tell he's chewing on the inside of his cheek again in order not to make a sound. Has Dean's finger probing around inside his ass, cleaning him out. He hates that part. Dean always makes sure to kiss it better.

Licks him slow, and deep, until Sam's tummy flutters. Until he's pink and soft and pretty much willing to bite off his own hand as long as Dean would get his mouth on his cock. But that's out of the question today, and he knows that, and fidgets, on edge.

Smith picks those feet off his shoulders and kisses them, reverently. Smoothes his (yet again) shaved cheek against them, and hums his delight.

Sam usually is this pliant by Saturday.

“How 'bout we play puppy today?”

A fleeting wave of confusion flashes over Sam's face before the embarrassment settles in.

Sam doesn't have any same-aged friends. Or any friends, that is. Has always been kind of an outlier, Mrs. Wesson had told Mr. Smith. He likes his computer, and his little gadgets. Tested him on autism before, but nothing. She doesn't want to drug him, she said.

Sam spent very little time being an actual kid. Is so grossed out by the sheer idea that Dean is pretty certain it's been years since he last played “normal” pretend.

Sam plucks at his caged-in cock (definitely stiff if it could be), shrugs his naked little shoulder. Murmurs, “I dunno,” with his lashes down, shy to admit this is one of the things Dean makes him do that aren't completely for Dean's pleasure alone. But Dean knows, and he wouldn't ever tease.

God no.

“Y'don't have to wear the ears,” promises Smith, still cradling that darling foot. “But I have a tail for you, if you wanna.”

Sam flushes a lil bit deeper at examining the plug Dean is holding out for him. Blinks shortly up at Dean as long as he has the courage to, ask-says, “Uh, that's...kinda big. Isn't it?”

“Not bigger than the one from last night.”

“Hm.” Sam squirms, naked and squeaky-clean on Dean's expensive sheets. Puts his thumb to his teeth again, lets just the tip split into his mouth as he nods. Lisps, “Okay,” with the confidence of a real lover.

Dean's cock is smearing drippy against the inside of Sam's thigh by the time the plug is nestled deep. Dean pulls at the tail part of it, sticking out obviously, and savors the twitch in Sam's hand.

“Okay?”

Sam nods. His baby tummy is heaving with his quickened breath.

Dean smiles, “That's good.” Runs his hands along Sam's flanks, cups his face. Kisses him, sweetly, before sitting up, getting up. “You wanna go watch TV, baby? C'mere.”

Smith pats his leg, and it takes a moment for Sam to gather his confidence. But eventually, he slips out of bed, on all fours. Crawls to Dean, on all fours.

Cranes his neck so Dean can pet him. Can make him say, “Good boy, Sammy.”

Dean lays out a spare sheet over the suede of the sofa, because stains are a bitch to get out of it. Gathers snacks and the remote, and the other remote, and pets Sam again who's idling patiently on the floor, eyes all awake and eager.

Dean praises, “You're doing so good,” with his dick in his hand, Sam's hair in the other. “Are you happy, boy? Is my good boy happy?”

Sam gets it. Raises his hips just so, and shakes his ass, imitating a wagging tail. Dean chuckles, pets more. Kisses that crown of hair again, and pats the spot next to him on the sofa. Thumbs on the TV.

“C'mon, it's okay. Good boys can get up on the furniture, you know that.”

Sam's little bark is the cutest, the fucking holiest little sound Dean could ever imagine.

He nuzzles Smith's presented cock with his entire face once he's made it up, and God why didn't Dean buy a collar yet?

Whatever's on the TV, Dean doesn't care. Some kid cartoon show, judging by the voices, but all he wants to see is Sam choking himself on his cock, mouth foaming with spit and eyes closed, little hands curled up over Dean's thigh.

Oh, right. “Wait, hold on. I have something else.”

Sam hasn't moved an inch when Dean returns from another dash to the bedroom. Lets him take his hand, one after the other, and doesn't fight the mittens. They're so fucking small. Almost too small for Sam's big-boy hands. Fucking girl centered size system. Smith has to go shopping soon.

“Shit. You look so fucking adorable, baby. Look at you.”

Real Sam would make a face, maybe even a scene—puppy Sam smiles, wags his tail. Lets Dean kiss all over his face, giggles very un-dog like, sucks cock very un-dog like.

Dean rakes his fingers through that thick hair again; perfect length for pigtails, but Sam hates that as well. Doesn't complain though when Smith only bundles those up with his hands, lets him have the fantasy. Maybe isn't aware he's doing it; either way.

“Doing so fucking good for me. Taking such good care'a me.”

Smith loves hands-free blowjobs like any other guy. Likes the twinkle of tears in too-full lashes, the quiver of ass around that plug. The fact that puppy Sam can gladly let go where real Sam would deny him.

Smile, groaned, “Lemme see that pretty lil tail, sweetheart.” Sam's eagerness to show off, yipping and turning around, chest-down watching Dean over his shoulder. Has the meatless little ass you'd expect looking at his face, lets Dean grope it, pull it so wide he'd be gaping so pretty if the plug wasn't all snug.

A pleased sigh when Dean starts playing with it. On the little pulls and twists. Buries his cheek into the sheet, maybe curls his fingers inside the mittens. Closes his eyes, barely ever this trusting with Dean when they're not fooling around. It's a predictable fact: Dean might miss football games, but he sure as hell would never miss out on this.

Baby-whimpers when Dean pulls for real. Can see that rim stretching around the fattest part of the toy until he allows it to be sucked right back in. A slow rhythm that Sam soon moves in.

Dean thumbs at the not-TV remote on the push-in and tosses it away to pet Sam's trembling lower back. Lets go of the toy.

“Wag if you like how that feels.”

A careful shake. An involuntary one then, due to the sensation the movement evokes.

A huff, truly like a puppy's.

Thank God it's still another thirty-something hours until Dean has to let him go again.

Puppies don't speak. That much is obvious. But Dean wouldn't scold Sammy for whimpering, or gasping, or any other humanoid sound. Plays with that tail while he's getting his cock played with; it's not a blowjob at this point, more like an irregular chain of mouth-to-cock touches. Sam gets with it sometime, remembers what he's supposed to do, until he doesn't. Rocks back up into Dean's hand, fucks himself, chasing the friction he's allowed to have.

“I wanna see if the next size fits, huh? How 'bout that?”

His puppy whines, but doesn't snarl. So, that's decided.

With Sam on his back, arms and legs folded protectively, Dean palms his caged yet wet little dick. Groans and sucks it into his mouth, no problem, and Sam whimpers so good at that.

If anatomy would allow it, he'd have stuck his dick up Sam's ass while blowing him ages ago; Sam's into it that much, always so fixated on Dean's mouth, Dean noticed. Would say yes to getting his tits pierced as long as Dean'd put his mouth on him while it's being done.

Dean fucks the current plug in and out a few times before turning it off, putting it aside, greasing up the next size. This one is not much fatter than his own cock, and the sight of the kid's ass swallowing the toy up so steadily (even if not without much of a strain on Dean's wrist and concentration) makes Dean's heart throb slick right between his thighs.

“Baby,” he slurs. “Sammy. Fuck.”

Dean has to get on his feet, has to put a hand on himself. Comes loud and copiously over Sam's junk, his little navel, the arches of his ribs. Gets sweat-sticky blinks for that, an impatient shiver of a leg.

“Just a—just gimme a second. Jesus.”

Dean pants for breath. Laughs, when he gets one foot against his belly, then a second.

“You're such a fucking dream. You even know that? Fuck.”

Sam's face twists. His tongue goes for his lip. When Dean touches his hand back to the plug, he makes a warning sound that has Dean watching him close.

Another half-tug, and Sam breaks. Whimpers, “Hurts,” like he's about to cry.

“Okay, okay. I got you. I'm sorry.”

Dean swallows. Wipes a thumb over the baby-gape, leans forward to kiss Sam's squirmy mouth. Gets pushed off with mittened paws, ignores that, nuzzles that neck.

“You okay?”

“Mh.”

“You wanna keep playing? We can stop if you want.”

“I—I feel like I need to...to go.”

Dean lets him up. Fidgets with his fingers, unseen, alone, in the low light between TV and drawn curtains. Hears the toilet flush eventually, the velcro of the mittens.

Hears the shower, and smiles to himself.

Sammy comes out on two legs, but has the mittens back on. Sniffles, wipes at his face with the back of his bound hand, eyes on Dean, always.

Dean stretches his arm out so Sam can climb under better. Cradles him, nuzzles his hair.

“You wanna get the plug back in? The small one?”

Huffed, hidden-quiet, “Okay.”

“Alright.”

Sammy's hands on his shoulders, the kid on his knees, Dean can watch his face from below while he plugs him back up. That lost little half-blink on the thickest part settling in, the belated exhale. Dean laps over a nipple with a smile, holds a twitching hip.

Dean's puppy makes a face at the idea of playing fetch at first, before Dean goes to retrieve his teddy bear. Crawls after it as fast as he can, picks it up with his mouth, brings it back. Such a proud little face, flushed from effort and real excitement, his tiny tiny ass wagging again and Dean breaks the treats out right then and there.

The game only ever gets more enthusiastic from here on. Sam doesn't even close his mouth anymore between dropping the toy and accepting the rewards; nuzzles Dean's hand, licks fingers for more. A nip here and there, because this is still Sam, domesticated or not.

Dean turns on the vibrations at some point. It slows the kid down some, but it's such a delicious sight.

Sam lets his tongue loll out with his labored breath, complete in-character. Even laps dutifully out of the bowl of water Dean sets down for him to drink from, doesn't even try to purse his lips and drink like a boy despite the thirst he must be feeling from the salty chocolate treats.

Sam really, really likes this game.

“Such a good boy, Sammy.”

Dean rewards with more petting, a higher setting on the toy. Hears and sees and feels Sam being taken aback, stalling in his efforts to get any water down his throat at all, before he settles in, keeps drinking.

Baby's got vacant eyes, flushed from hairline down to his dark little nipples. Sits back on his haunches when Dean says, “Sit.” Rubs his cheek into Dean's palm when it touches him.

Dean gets open eyes on the treat bag when he rustles it.

“Beg.”

Sam raises to his knees, eyes shifting from treats to Dean's face and back. Thin-thin arms folded up, paws hanging, tongue lolling.

Dean grunts, “Jesus,” and feeds him, high on being this hard, again.

These weekends take a lot out of him.

His arm hates him for breaking the prostate wand out, again, fucking another weak load out of the kid with it, again. He makes him lap stupid at his cock, artless like any real pup, until he blows. Sam doesn't like the taste of it, but the promise of waffles makes him just cooperative enough.

Would be a lie to say Dean wasn't completely in love with the way Sam's face twists in disgust.

Would be a lie to say Dean wasn't completely walking on air walking down the street with Sam in tow, usually dangling from his hand or safely tucked under his arm.

Sam can eat like five grown men. Dean hasn't quite made out yet where he stores all of it, only ever seems thinner, longer whenever he sees him.

Sam makes girlfriend-eyes at Dean, in the dark of the cinema. Whispers, “No,” when Dean flirts a hand between his Salvation Army jeans thighs, and spills some popcorn over their laps. Shoves at Dean when he doesn't stop, until he gives up, sinks into his seat, hides behind his popcorn, in his too-big of a sweater jacket.

Dean's given him blowjobs here, before. Last row, late showtime, barely anyone else here but them. Sam remembers that, but Dean didn't take off the cage. Would've left him plugged too if he had a small size without a tail sticking out of the other end.

Rubs at Sam's soft parts over his jeans, and promises, promises, promises. They're best whispered low, with Sammy's mouth full and fingers sticky-sweet.

Smith is good at promises. Making them, keeping them.

Buys Sam waffles, after. A huge milkshake, and pretzels to go.

Sam pays him back with flushed cheeks, and trembling knees, and huffed nothings.

Pulling clothes off his endless limbs is almost as fun as making him fondle Dean's balls in the Jacuzzi. Kissing him, here, warm and wet and silk-soft, he thinks even Sam likes that part. Curls tiny fists against Dean's chest upon getting predator dick pressed up against his ass, lets Dean beat off like that, rubs back if asked to.

Kid's close to sobs when Dean finally decides that cage time is over. Has buckling knees, still in the bathroom, towel falling from shoulders, hands flying to rub through Dean's still-wet hair. If pushing him off or pulling him in, that's irrelevant.

Sam always comes so quick. A lot, too. Makes it harder to play with him all night, but it's worth the effort. Squirms so cute, so weakly. Coarse little voice, gasping for, “Stop, stop, I _can't_ ,” with his yet-again stiff cock down Smith's Sales and Marketing throat, hands not even able to reach out anymore he's so worn-out.

Dean's thought about turning him over more often than not. Would work without injury, surely, with enough lube. Thinks about it when his kid is so out of it he's barely even breathing anymore, so limp his little mouth is dropped open, arms and legs splayed like Dean wants them.

All Dean's had the courage for as of yet is pressing right up against the pucker of it, bring himself to orgasm right there. Watch it drip and run, fruitlessly, beautifully.

He's still so soft tonight from playing all day, that Dean slips almost-in. On accident. Catches himself doing it, kid out like a light in his arms, hair fallen into eyes and over the no-longer pink shells of ears.

Smith is panting, on the edge of tears. Ends up thrusting between Sam's closed legs instead, barely any friction but the idea of it doing it for him. Clutches him so tight to his chest he can feel bones shifting in that tiny body. Rubs wet eyes into a shoulder. Cleans him up before he falls asleep.

~

“I dreamed you were doing it.”

“Doing what?”

“You know.” Sam pushes his ass up so Dean can fondle his morning stiffy better. Can slot his own between Sam's asscheeks better. “Fucking me.”

“Jesus.” Stutter, slick. “Don't—don't fucking say that.” Then, fever-light, “What was it like?”

“Like I was gonna burst. Warm.” He ends with a sigh, his tit plucked nice in between Dean's thumb and forefinger. Cranes his neck and humps Dean's hand.

Dean's never had morning sex until Sam.

Never tried to not-stuff his dick into something alive and warm and soft at just past nine AM on a Sunday morning.

Sam's the first thing that doesn't make him wanna run.

He blows all over Sam's ass and balls so he can slurp it clean afterwards; none of it before giving Sam the honor of coming first. Sundays are for indulging.

Big breakfast, again. Sam has spread his homework all over the table already, eats half-buried in books but never drips his bacon or syrup over anything. Very cleanly.

“You're squinting so much. You think you might need glasses, huh?”

Stink-eye. Everything Sam offers.

Dean makes a mental note.

Dean helps him with math. And English. And whatever question Sam has on the side, which Sam has many of. Most of them not related to the subject at all. Smith's boy thinks in different ways than most textbooks, or teachers, or children.

He's a pretty awesome kid, really.

Dean wonders if he can get another kiss, another touch, always. If he can peel him out of his clothes just one more time, can make him shiver and gasp and let his head roll back.

Smith's favorite, best, most awesome kid.

Smith dreams of taking all his vacation days, someday. Packing swimming trunks, and Sam, and just disappear for a week. Bathe him in coconut oil and sunscreen and salt water, all day, every day. Kiss him all over until he smells like Dean's mouth, everywhere, forever.

Sammy won't look at him with his hand jerking his dick. Fights, hard, upon getting his head shoved down, barks, “No,” and, “I hate you, I don't wanna,” like he's furious he's going back home in twenty, too.

Keeps ignoring Dean in the car, scowling out of the window.

Dean's inconsolable too, but at least he tries. Says, “Hey,” and, “how 'bout we see if we can check out the museum next week, huh? Didn't you say there was an uh an exposition on, uh...”

His baby supplies, “Robots, yeah,” flat and his heart just way too soft-dented for a monster like Dean.

Dean's never promised to hand him back whole.

Never promised to not walk him right up to the door, falling-apart shoes and graffiti walls. Smith swears you can smell the mold from here. (Sam never lets him up anymore.)

Honest-to-god hug that Sam struggles himself out of. Mutters about seeing Dean again next Friday, then, and leaves him behind, not looking back.

Dean stays where he is until he loses sight of him through the bashed-in security glass door. The walk back to the car is always the worst.

 


End file.
